slowly going madly
I’m barricaded in the library. Uncle’s Last Will reads like riddles. Cousins crush to pound down the door. Everybody quiet or I’ll call security. I’ll wait for the thump of a battering ram. I’ll toss the place to find his dire read.
My silence meets with a rising hiss. Smoke snakes up the vent. A door slams and creaks open again. I’ll put my shirt over the floor vent, I will—find my phone—I will push the desk under the window.
No shirt. No smoke. No way to open the ledge window. Dusty index card, may be numbers. I’ll give you the library, you set me free. I’ll pull the alarm. I’ll pocket the card.
The phone in my shirt’s a smoky brick. But no alarm except one I hear, I hear no offer from the other side. I’ll bash the window with this brick. I’ll slide the card down the vent. I’ll slide out the atlas binding the doors.
A klaxon blasts all thoughts to bits. Bits of voice hit the door. Door slam demands be gone before we’re back. I’ll take the phone, the smokey shirt. I’ll take in uncle’s too-tidy library, his careful classification system.
Language section special topics. A 404 cannot be found, of course. Unless obscuring its-shelf, ha ha. I’ll use the atlas for protection. I’ll wait until somebody hears the alarm. I’ll bolt banshee free of the library.
Foolish ruse—tight as thieves, they tumble in. Atlas across, quick lock the door. I’ll snap the breaker and quiet the klaxon. I’ll saunter into town, intersection of hidden and plain site. I’ll ignore their siren screams. Hush.
